


Music to my Ears

by calabash



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Crushes, Falling In Love, Fluff, M/M, but dont we all, simmons has a weak spot for guitars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-09
Updated: 2018-07-09
Packaged: 2019-06-07 13:35:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15220259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/calabash/pseuds/calabash
Summary: Grif goes missing. Simmons goes looking for him, and finds out more than he expected.





	Music to my Ears

**Author's Note:**

> This isn't technically a songfic, but I do recommend that you listen to "Believe Me, Natalie" by The Killers while you read it. It's one of my favorite songs, and I thought Grif and Simmons would love it too. It really captures that feeling of sad nostalgia with just a glimmer of happiness underneath it all that I think embodies their relationship. 
> 
> I didn't have a set time period in mind when writing this, but I think I was instinctively picturing the story taking place in Blood Gulch. I've always really liked their dynamic from the Blood Gulch Chronicles - just two guys who have nothing to do except talk to each other all day, complain, fight, and eventually fall in love. Now that's romance. Enjoy!

Simmons felt like he might be hallucinating. He had just woken up, so it was not impossible, given the insanity he had experienced in his time. Maybe the desert sun was beating down a bit too harshly the last few days, making him and everyone else act a little off-kilter. The only thing he was certain of was that something was terribly amiss in Red Base, and as he stood in the doorway of his best friend's room, he was face to face with an incomprehensible truth, something so shocking that he was almost incapable of accepting it. 

Grif was awake before him.

This was almost statistically impossible. In all the years that Simmons had known Grif, he had never once woken up early of his own volition – if left to his own devices, he would sleep at least until noon, sometimes later. Simmons was the one that had to wake him up every morning, screaming in his ear and shaking him roughly to convince him to get out of bed and have breakfast before Sarge began barking out their orders. The only other option was that, somehow, Simmons himself had overslept; but the alarm clock by the wall that read 6:04 AM said otherwise. And yet, in spite of that, Grif's bed was empty, the sheets still unmade like any normal day.

Simmons stood in the threshold of the room, a nervous energy overtaking him. It was silly, surely, but he had every reason to be concerned about the man. This was very un-Grif-like behavior. Maybe he was sick, which kept him from sleeping, and he had wandered off? Or had he gotten kidnapped? Maybe Sarge finally lost his patience and really did shoot him, and was off hiding the evidence! A whirlwind of horrible fates for his best friend rushed through his mind, and Simmons hurriedly pulled a red t-shirt over his head as he rushed out the door, searching for Grif.

The only two places Grif enjoyed being in were the kitchen and the recreational room, and both were empty – there wasn't even a stack of dirty dishes from Grif's breakfast in the sink. Simmons rushed outside, scanning the horizon for any sign of his presence. The sky was still a deep indigo, hindering his search; it must have been the planet's version of winter, because there were still stars twinkling brightly in the distance, and the vague hints of sunlight peeking out of the bottom of the sky made it clear that that the sun would not be up for at least another hour.

Simmons knew it was unsafe, but also knew that if Grif was still in the gulch, there were only so many places he could've gone, and if he wasn't, there was more to worry about than his own well-being. Cautiously, he started walking toward the opposite end of the canyon, treading lightly to avoid notice. He had only been walking for a minute or so when he heard a sound that he hadn't heard in quite a long time; so long that, for a moment, he could not identify it. Suddenly, like a rush of nostalgia, it hit him. Somewhere above him, with a softness that only barely cut through the stillness, an acoustic guitar was being played.

Confused, but a little less apprehensive than before, Simmons drifted in the direction of the melody. He didn't know anyone in the canyon to have any musical prowess, except for Donut's surprisingly soothing singing voice. The instrument was barely audible, so it must have been quite high up, but he could still make out bits. He vaguely recognized the song, something about it both wistful and longing. Even at the distance from which he was listening, he could feel it stirring up the quashed down emotions that he had so meticulously tried to destroy.

As he approached the cliffs overlooking both bases, the guitar grew even louder, and Simmons could more clearly make out the tune. He'd definitely heard this song before, but was having difficulty placing it. He felt his eyes slip shut as he wandered idly, just listening. He knew he was supposed to be focused, but the song had him relaxing almost involuntarily. Whatever it was, it was beautiful; a gentle, plaintive melody whose familiar tunes were dredging up some long dead nostalgia. It was so simple, yet almost ethereal; if he didn't know better, he would have said that the guitarist seemed to be one with the music.

Just as Simmons thought this, a dissonant note tore through the instrument, causing his eyes to snap open and the music to abruptly stop. “Shit,” an entirely too familiar voice above him hissed.

Simmons knew who it was the moment he'd spoken. “Grif?” he called out, his gaze turning upward to the cliffside.

There was a pause. “Simmons?”

“Hold on, I'm coming up,” he yelled back, making his way up to the top of the cliff.

While Simmons's anxiety had been mollified both by the music and by hearing Grif's voice, clearly _not_ under any kind of duress, he was no less confounded. Upon reaching the cliff's peak, he spotted the back of his friend, sitting stiffly with his legs folded. As Simmons approached, he saw Grif set the guitar down on his side, blocking view of it with his body, and lean back in an odd way, as if he was trying to feign a casual air. When Simmons sat down, Grif averted his gaze, looking off at something in the distance instead of at him.

“Hey,” Simmons began.

“Hey.”

“What are you doing up here?”

Grif shrugged, trying to seem nonchalant. “Just wanted to sit outside for a bit.”

“It's, uh, really early,” Simmons prompted. “The sun's not even up yet.”

“I know,” he said tersely. “Just... wanted to take a minute to myself, is all.”

Simmons frowned. He was bad at understanding a lot of social cues, but the one thing he had learned to pick up on was when he was intruding. He started to rise to his feet as he mumbled, falteringly, “My bad, I didn't mean t–”

“No, don't leave,” Grif interrupted, turning to face him abruptly. “I didn't mean it like that. I've just been thinking.”

“Oh,” Simmons said, the relief in his voice palpable as he sat back down. “About?”

“I don't know,” Grif responded, shifting his gaze toward the ground. “Stuff.”

A thick silence fell over the two as Simmons studied his companion's almost unreadable expression. Grif was the undeniable master of pretending that nothing was wrong, especially when something was _most definitely_ wrong, but the mask was failing now. Perhaps Simmons just knew him that well over their many years of companionship, or maybe Grif being up this early had him particularly unhinged. Or maybe, Simmons thought as his gaze drifted to the partially-obscured guitar, maybe it was the music.

“I heard you playing,” Simmons tried. “From the base.”

Grif was silent, but his jittery movements betrayed his nerves. His fingers were drumming on the ground a little too fast; Simmons couldn't tell what exactly he was thinking, but whatever it was, it was clearly causing him a surprising amount of stress.

Simmons pressed on. “I didn't know you could play guitar.”

Grif turned ever so slightly, glancing at Simmons out the corner of his eye. “I play bass, too,” he said after a moment.

“Why haven't you ever played for us before?” Simmons asked. “You're really fucking good.”

Grif's face contorted into what Simmons assumed was supposed to be a sardonic smile, but it really came off as a pained grimace. “Why would I?” he asked, clearly not wanting an answer. “I can't do _anything_ without someone bitching about it. Why bother doing something I actually _like_ when I know someone's gonna just ruin it for me?”

Simmons frowned at that. “Look, I know things are shitty out here,” he started, “and we're always fighting. _All_ the time. But, I'm gonna be honest with you. Listening to you play is the closest I've come to enjoying something in a long time. So why don't you stop being an idiot, and just play that song again? The one you just played.”

Grif paused, glancing sidelong at his guitar. “...You serious?” he inquired haltingly.

“No, Grif, I'm asking because I _don't_ want you to play,” Simmons replied sarcastically, but there was a gentleness in his tone. “Come on, I wanna hear it again. I couldn't tell what song it was, but it sounded awesome.”

“Thanks,” Grif mumbled, obviously trying his best to not sound pleased. He reached out and grabbed his guitar, settling it carefully in his arms as he strummed a chord absently. “It was 'Believe Me, Natalie,' by the way.”

Simmons let out a gasp of surprise, causing Grif to glance up at him. “ _That's_ what it was,” he said. “I haven't heard it in so long, I almost didn't recognize it. That's one of my favorite songs.”

Grif eyed him strangely, before his lips curled into a small smile. This one was genuine. “Mine, too,” he agreed. He continued to play a few warm up chords, briefly falling silent as he did so. “I really do miss playing, sometimes,” he finally admitted. “Feels like the only good thing I was able to bring from home.”

“I'm sure there were others,” Simmons responded, watching Grif pluck experimentally at the strings.

“Nothing worth mentioning,” Grif said. He took a deep breath as he positioned his fingers over the guitar's frets, and, with an easy motion of his hand, began the first notes of the song.

All at once, Simmons's memories of Earth began rushing back to him. He closed his eyes as the images took over his mind – the late nights in his room, headphones in, listening to this song on repeat until he fell asleep. Some of the few happy memories from his youth. Grif's acoustic cover was different, but his little changes only improved his performance; he played the song a little slower than in the original, and pitched it down ever so slightly, which gave Simmons more time to admire Grif's hard work in learning it. Grif whistled quietly to harmonize with the melody, and just as Simmons thought he might actually fall asleep to the sound, Grif began to sing.

The shock of hearing Grif sing had him once again coming back to himself with a start. He stared openly at Grif as he sang along with the guitar, nerves clearly showing on his face as he stared at his hands and sang a little under his breath. There was no reason for him to do that, though. He was _amazing_. Before today, Simmons had no knowledge of Grif's musical skill, so to hear him play guitar perfectly _and_ sing simultaneously was genuinely astonishing. His singing voice was deeper than Simmons would have imagined, and he was switching between harmony and melody so easily that, if Simmons didn't know better, he would assume that Grif had written the song himself.

Grif glanced up at Simmons, anxiously at first, but as he laid his eyes on Simmons, something in his expression changed. Seeing Simmons's awed reaction must have caused a surge of confidence. He sat up a bit straighter, now making direct eye contact with Simmons, and sang out louder, his guitar's volume increasing to match. His powerful voice echoed through the canyon, the wind seeming to carry it off into the distance.

But Simmons couldn't begin to think of that. He couldn't think of anything. Everything vanished from his mind, until all that was left was the moment with Grif – his piercing gaze reaching far, far into his soul, his guitar easing Simmons into a state of euphoria that he hadn't felt in years, and his deep, soothing voice wrapping around him like the warmest embrace. It made him feel breathless. Simmons saw Grif lean forward, closer to him, and felt his own body gravitating toward him instinctively. He barely registered that he had moved at all. All that mattered was that they were there, together, sharing something beautiful. Just him and Grif.

All too soon, Grif strummed out the last few notes, ending the impromptu performance with a little flourish of a chord. Simmons blinked himself out of his reverie, feeling tears pricking at his eyes. Coming back to himself, he realized that his mouth was still hanging open, and he quickly shut it. He and Grif were sitting barely a hair apart, still staring deeply at each other, both completely silent.

“Well?” Grif prompted after a moment.

Simmons averted his gaze from Grif's in order to wipe at his eyes, grateful that he was in a good enough mood that he didn't get after Simmons for openly crying. “That was...” he started. “That was fucking incredible, Grif. Really. You _need_ to play more often.”

Grif chuckled self-consciously. “Maybe,” he said ambivalently. “It might be worth it just to see that look on your face again.”

Simmons couldn't help the flush that overcame him. “There was no _look_ , jackass,” he snapped. “I was just paying attention.”

“There most definitely was,” Grif teased, dusting himself off. “You were staring like you'd never heard music before. It was like you were in love.” He looked up at the sky, and Simmons followed his gaze. The sun was finally starting to come up behind them, lighting the very tip of the deep blue sky with flecks of golden yellow and light, rosy pink.

“We should head back. I'm sure Sarge is gonna start shooting our doors in any time soon,” Simmons said.

Grif rose to his feet, grabbing his guitar off the ground as he did so. “You're right. Let's head out,” he said, offering Simmons a hand.

Simmons reached out to take the hand splayed out toward him, lifting his eyes to meet Grif's. When their gazes connected, Simmons felt the world shift a little, and everything seemed to stop. With the golden sun coming up behind Grif, almost illuminating him, it was as if Simmons was truly seeing him for the first time. His glowing, tan skin that looked so smooth and warm. His deep brown eyes that glimmered whenever he showed a flash of that lazy grin. His long, curly hair that flowed around him like a crashing wave. His smile, the real one; the tiny curl of his lips that only happened when he was truly happy, the one he saved for the moments when he and Simmons were alone.

Simmons felt a little woozy as he stood up straight. The walk to Red Base was relatively silent, but Simmons's mind was racing. He could still see Grif's eyes on his, never breaking contact, that glimmer of happiness shining in them. He could still hear Grif's voice, singing out proudly, but with an unmistakable intimacy in his tone, as if the performance had been just for him. Simmons couldn't help hoping to himself that it was.

Grif halted his step, turning back to look at Simmons. “You good, dude?” he asked, that little smile still on his face. “You look lost.”

“I'm fine,” Simmons said, feeling anything but.

“Well, not to get all cheesy,” Grif began, looking a little embarrassed, “but... thanks. I used to play for Kai all the time back home. It was nice to do it again.”

“Oh, uh... you're welcome,” Simmons stuttered out. “Anytime.”

Grif smiled again, this one a big, content grin, and Simmons felt his stomach lighten with butterflies. All of a sudden, everything seemed to come together, and he realized that he wasn't exaggerating. He had meant it completely. He'd let Grif play for him anytime, anywhere, regardless of everything else. He would do anything at all for Grif, as long as it meant just getting to be near him. Anything if it meant he could see Grif smile like that forever.

Grif's words from the cliff came back to him, ringing out in his mind.

_Oh no._

**Author's Note:**

> I had a hard time deciding what song Grif should be playing, but I chose this one because I think Grif would probably love The Killers. He just seems like an alt-rock kind of guy. 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed, and thank you for reading!


End file.
